Psychedelic
by Salem Saori
Summary: Noticing the lack of fanfics about minor or villanous characters, here's my look into the complex, if crazy events towards the end of episode 2x13. Rated T for language, violence, and heavy drugs use.


_A/N: Hello there, you're glancing though my small contribution to the Nip/Tuck fandom. Just sharing a little love for an unwanted character that is, in fact, among my favourites. Standard disclaimer applies. Oh, and it is set during the episode 2x13 "Oona Wentworth", so according spoilers for this one subplot are granted._

_Also, tis weird. Slightly… weird. Yeah. Like when Christian and Sean talked to those corpses. But worse._

_Hope you enjoy. Please throw in a couple lines even if you don't like it, okay? Much love, xxx._

**Psychedelic**

One, two _(breath)_ three _(breath)_ four five _(breath breath **breath**)_

He exhaled—

It was emotion in its purest form and he loved it. It was so overwhelming, so needed, made him feel complete and dependant, his brain chilling with the salty sweetness of each inhalation his body shivering with painful need at the prospect of drawing another gasp towards the ravaged lungs which burned in objection but the urge won over the pain he couldn't, he couldn't, he _wouldn't_ stop—

_(breath_)

feeling each instant horribly charged with ecstasy and anticipation

_(breath_)

hazy vision, exceptionally sensitive touch

(_silence_)

Then, for the second after, it all felt cold; as though reality were suddenly to strike his mind again, and oh from one second to another he _almost_ sensed his body stumble and lean to one side _(that doesn't feel too right_) which at the same time struck him as absurdly humorous and a grin spread in his lips though the mask the mask his drug his oxygen _his blessed escapism_—

Just then, it pierced through his ears, the shrill and feminine bother, the impatient disturbed tone that distracted his senses and forced his blue eyes open again and the world around him focused and materialized into that awful, ghastly dark backroom, poorly built after some kind of operation area which bordered on creepy and smelt of dampness and anesthesics; the girl was talking, actually saying something, her lips moving and forming words that his brain took seconds to make out.

"Um… Is it going to take much longer?" Ah yes, that young patient who wanted to become some famous model's look alike with an obsession in a pocket and a dream in the other or something. He couldn't even afford to be angered at himself for listening, as his mind only followed one blurry, wavy, momentarily cut train of thought at the time – _oh shut up don't you see it, don't you see, don't you fucking people see this is…_ "It's been twenty minutes already…" _…important, just_

"Shut up," He almost pushed that grumble out of his painfully arid throat _(this bitch is taking its toll already_, although little did he care) before the mist in his brain dissolved just the slightest bit, leaving hardly enough room to hear the voice belonging to that slightly younger, ironically more sensible himself who lived in the back of his mind and whispered,

_She's not wrong._ – "Just shut the fuck up," he groaned to nobody concretely, seeing as the occupant of the operation table had already fallen silent – _It's been enough, just give her what she wants and you can stay snorting that shit for all the afternoon._

"I…"

_Come on Merril, even if it's just for the old times._

Merril Bobolit blinked, rage gradually liquefying and giving place to new, better feelings as the pair of clear blue eyes peered out into the eerie basement. He didn't like doing that, glancing in detail at his chaotic lair, and there were certain spots which he particularly avoided although the reasons as to that escaped his currently tattered logic.

The former surgeon could've easily chalked it up not to what he could see there (_lockers and vaguely medical-looking instrumental and a clock that didn't mean much to him and a mirror which he hated),_ but what he missed – everything he had lost, the dirty tricks up his sleeve which had only lasted for so long. Working with Madam Rose wasn't hard, not even when he caught the owner of the nail salon _(the basement of which had become Merril's office and working area and living room) _in a particularly mean mood. He didn't pay much attention to the things she barked anyway. Her words melted into eachother – they always did because he really couldn't afford to even pretend he was concerned about what she had to say.

What tormented him wasn't his situation. It was the fortune that had slipped away like sand between his fingers.

_(not that it was my fa—)_

_It's okay, it wasn't your fault._

_(no, it wasn't)_

_No, it wasn't…_

Dr. Bobolit grinned again, this time fully pleased. Finally managing inches of control over the numb carcass of his body, he rolled away and looked around, the voice of his thoughts falling silent for some seconds as though it was trying to find a suitable reply.

_(it was christian's)_

_(so unfair…)_

_And he probably never wished anything good for you, either. _And at this point, his thoughts were transformed into spluttering, dry words spoken difficultly, "And to think I've trusted him… Yesss Hannah wasn't wrong. _We'll never get to be like Christian_. But we both began from scratch and you know what, damn right I will never be like him, in that I'm_ not_ a traitor, not a backstabbing, disgusting, self-indulgent, filthy little **_sore loser_**!"

_(breath)_

_But you're describing _**your **_life—_

"SHUT UP!" Stumble up, loud crash as the surface of Merril's desk was swept by an angry hand. Pictures, quick notes scribbled in and out of his delirium state taking the place of an ordinary doctor's complex reports, an assortment of small figurines and various metallic pieces he vaguely distinguished _(they were all the same blurry silver)_, all met the floor stridently.

The more those senseless words ringing in his head tried to make sense, the more they told him something was not right, an ill suspicion lost somewhere inside the brain, partly also pushing him into dwelling on… on _everything_. On what had happened, on his surroundings, his _actual_ surroundings even when sometimes it all seemed just Merril and the smell of his drug. Unlike now – head pounding in pain, pulse beating loudly in his ears. Forcing him to realize what he was

trying to forget

What was he trying to forget?

Merril didn't move, left hand twitching and trembling, right one grasping the oxygen mask tightly. Once again, the fulfilment had gone away, and he h-he was all alone there. Again so alone, so alone, so alone, where the hell was that girl how the **_fuck_** could you lose a patient without even moving…

_(breath)_

_There is something dow-downright wrong------w------th---is_

_(breath.)_

_(breath)_

_(breath)_

_(shh.)_

"Doctor Bobolit? It's already been thirty mi—"

"I know what I'm fucking doing, okay!" Merril shouted, his lips parting from blessed gas to turn around and face the patient only to find silence, but along with that he saw the bloody rags and emptiness he was alone all alone all with

the newly caught sight of that suitcase in the corner

…sickness creeping from his throat up to his mouth and he reached for his lips just to find something slimy and warm and red greeting them along with the smell of raw meat and hacked flesh and failure…

…And the patient indeed returned the look, staring emptily at the ceiling as did the rest of her dismembered body – a deep fissure poked in her lower abdomen, already broken in coagulating crimson, and she was immobile but Merril could still hear and see her talk with a voice he had always known;

_Thirty minutes, _and he dashed towards the case to zip it closed after stuffing the corpse's mouth with tattered cloth without managing to shut it up, _you little loser, you have spent no less than thirty minutes now running away from everything you do like a fucking child having never been able to make any decent step by yourself you you what are you doing in this rathole while the lowest that idiot is so much more SO MUCH MORE THAN YOU—_

"Merril?"

_Remember how it would always be him then you? Christian the Casanova, Merril the bottom of his class? How even then, you'd always feel defeated around him? Remember how betrayed you felt when you'd follow his steps only to find he left you for that loser Sean?_

And as Christian approached _(looked into his eyes and spotted an unfocused look there, sniffed the gas mask and asked if he was high again)_, he understood it all.

If there was one thing he had learned from Dr. Troy, it was that the key for success wasn't a partner – not anymore – but his face.

_Remember tasting fame without him then going downhill in the blink of an eye…?_

His

_Remember the humiliation?_

handsome

_How he called himself a real doctor – as opposed to you?_

beautiful

_The envy, the greed, the wrath? The feeling that, no matter how good you were, you'd never be as strikingly perfect as him?_

little

—_DISGUSTING REPULSIVE FILTHY ENVIOUS _**BASTARD**_—_

face…

_(and how he would love to rip it off, tear it all away)_

**Fin**

_A/N: … yes. I'll run away now. Sorry. Don't hurt me. Sorry. Thanks._


End file.
